


The Hymn to Diana

by Sapphy



Series: Playing with other people's toys [3]
Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, Consensual, Consensual Kink, F/M, Guilt, Light Dom/sub, Pegging, Pre-Series, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Hatred, Unreliable Narrator, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3224666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/Sapphy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of John's first love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hymn to Diana

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Judas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2813966) by [MumblingSage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MumblingSage/pseuds/MumblingSage). 



> This is a remix of Judas by MumblingSage, retelling the events of their story from John's perspective. They have my eternal gratitude for allowing me to mangle their wonderful fic like this.
> 
> This is my first time writing pre-Newcastle John, and I found that he actually hates himself even more than canon John. I think it's because canon John knows he's got hell coming, he knows he's going to be punished for his actions, so he might as well enjoy his time on earth. Baby John has just as much guilt, but none of the certainty of punishment, so he punishes himself.
> 
> Ishtar and Astarte are the same person, the Mesopotamian virgin goddess of the moon, and analogous to Diana, the Roman goddess of the moon. The Catullan prayer mentioned is a hymn written by Catullus to Diana. MumblingSage has a line where Annie refers to herself as a moon-priestess, presumably a reference to her virginity. I took that reference and ran with it. And ran, and ran.

He hadn’t expected Anne-Marie to kiss him. He’d be lying if he said he hacn’t hoped, because he’s been half in love with her since the first moment they met, and time and familiarity have only increased his affection, but he’d never expected.

It would be wrong too to say he never thinks about her in a sexual sense, because he had, a lot. It was more that he’d always seen those thoughts as separate from her. Anne-Marie dates, now and then, but she isn’t a sexual being, not like he is. She just doesn’t work that way, or so he’s always assumed. And he has no hang-ups about sex, not really, but there will always be a little part of him that thinks of her as too pure, to good, for sex. Sex is base and physical, and Anne-Marie has always seemed to him to be above such things, operating on some higher plane, even when she’s pissed and vomiting on his shoes. (Which only happened once, but he’s never going to let her forget it).

So yes, it comes as a shock when she kisses him, but a pleasant one. He doesn’t know if it will go anywhere, can’t really imagine that it will, but it’s good all the same. She kisses with a kind of single minded intensity, fierce and in control, and he’s more than happy to submit to her, in this if not in anything else. He’s always been willing to give her everything he was capable of giving, which is precious little usually, but in this he can at least give her something, can let her take control, let her set the boundaries and dictate what she’s comfortable with and not ask for more.

She pushes him back into bare floorboards and he lets her, touching her gently, reverently, feeling the kind of confused awe he usually associated with especially spectacular magics.

She undresses him slowly, sliding off his jacket and rolling his tee-shirt up over his head, leaving him bare to the waist and feeling oddly self-conscious. He’s been naked in front of her before, because magic can be perverse like that and some rituals only worked ‘sky-clad’, but this was different, this is something a million times more intimate. He feels like it’s his soul rather than his body she’s exposing, and finds himself strangely comfortable with that. It seems only right that sex with Annie be different, something more than just physical.

Her gentle fingers find that spot on the side of his ribs that always makes him squirm, and he has to bite his lip to hold in the sudden bark of laughter that wants to force its way out of him, not wanting to disturb the careful quiet. She knows of course, fitting her mouth over his, helping him take it, helping him keep quiet, and he feels ridiculously grateful. He’s normally a fan of laughter during sex, it means people are enjoying themselves, but this feels like something more than sex, more like a divine communion, and he knows he’s never forgive himself as long as he lives if he spoils it.

He doesn’t see her pick up the candle, too absorbed in the taste and feel of her mouth to be aware of his surroundings, only becoming aware of it when she paints a scalding line of wax across his shoulders.

It burns so fucking good, he can’t help arching up into it, could no more stop himself rolling over to expose more of his back to her than he could stop the sun from rising. He’s given himself over to her, totally confident that she’ll worthy of that trust, and even if he wasn’t, the slightly pain is exquisite, just what he needs to ground him, distract him from unfamiliar and overwhelming emotion.

She paints a cross into his back, a burning sign of his submission to her, and he can’t hold back the tremors, body and mind overwhelmed and quieted in a way he’s rarely felt, everything except the sensation and her presence distant and unimportant.

There’s a pause in the drops, a long breathless moment of silence, drawn out until he can’t bear it anymore, has to whisper her name, a plea and a prayer, desperate to know he isn’t alone in what he’s feeling.

Her fingers touch his ribs, tracing the lines of a tattoo, and her voice sounds delicate and strong all at once, like it does when she’s channelling magic, when she says his name, asks if she should stop.

He can’t think of anything he wants less, now he knows she’s here with him, isn’t going to leave him alone with these feelings he doesn’t know how to process, makes a noise of pure desperation at the very thought of stopping. “God no.”

“You want more?” Her voice is confident now, teasing, and her nails score burning lines into his side as she speaks, shattering his thoughts and whiting everything out with a rush of _good_. He doesn’t answer in words, can’t, but he knows she understands the noise he makes, knows she’ll give him what he needs, like she always does. His beautiful Annie, the only girl he’s ever really loved, always there to catch him when he falls. Everything in the world he wants and doesn’t deserve, all in one beautiful body.

She must understand, because she bends and kisses the back of his neck, flicking out her tongue for a moment, wet and tingling and claiming, and he can’t stop himself from saying her name again, the word that means safety and love and everything good and pure in his world.

She knows what he needs, like she always does, sharp nails scraping wax away from deliciously tender skin, pain and pleasure and everything he could ever want from her, all in one simple touch. Her hands on his back are possessive, proprietary, knowing just where to touch, sensitive spots discovered during years of friendly touches and sincerely offered comfort. It feels so good to be _known_ like this, to have hands on him that belong to someone who loves him, who he trusts completely. He knows, in the tiny rational part of his mind that never turns off no matter what, the bit that has saved him more times than he likes to admit, that he shouldn’t be allowing this, shouldn’t be exposing his scarred and rotten soul like this, knows that this will end in heartbreak and rejection when Annie realises what he is, what a monster she’s allowed into her bed and heart, but he’s selfish, so he takes what she gives and lets his body beg for more. This might be the only time he ever gets to have this, this simple affection and casual possessiveness, and he’s not a good enough man to turn away from it, even knowing how he corrupts everything he touches.

His control is shot, emotions and body taking over from his rational mind, and he can’t stop himself from grinding up into her when she presses a thigh against his crotch as she reaches for the last spot of wax. He knows she doesn’t do it deliberately, thinks she’s probably forgotten he’s even _got_ a cock, but he feels so good, and she’s so beautiful, and he _wants._ He’s never been famous for his self-control.

He stammers out an apology, certain that he’s ruined this, that he’s taken this perfect moment and turned it base and dirty with his lack of control. But Annie strokes his hair, hand warm and soft and almost motherly, and tells him it was okay, that it doesn’t matter. And so he gathers up all his courage, all the bravado that usually comes so easily to him, and asks the one question he knows he shouldn’t.

“In that case, we could get the rest of these clothes off. And maybe we could drop my bare arse on some sheets?”

She doesn’t look disgusted, or horrified, or any of the things he’d half expected, because Annie doesn’t _do_ sex, instead she’s smiles at him, warm and fond, and amused, and says “I guess I don’t want you to get splinters.”

He wouldn’t have minded, in that moment he would have let her flay him alive and stick nails into his eyes if it would make her happy, but a bed sounds good too, sounds like Annie touching him some more, and maybe if he’s very good and very careful, getting to touch her too. He’ll take whatever she gives him, but _God_ he wants to touch her, wants to try and make her feel as good as she’s making him feel. Wants to try, in his clumsy way, to show her his world, the physical world she lives so far above. Wants, just for a moment, to bring her down to earth so she’s in his reach, if she’ll only let him.

She pulls him gently to his feet, not laughing when he stumbles, his legs shaky and unsure as a newborn colt, and leads him up to her bedroom. He’s been there before of course, has even slept in her bed, after especially hard rituals or drinking, but he still feels like he’s being shown something secret and precious as she guides him into the room and sits on the bed.

He considers for a moment sitting beside her, but then she opens the top drawer of her bedside table and that gives him the chance to sink to his knees like he wants, a supplicant before her altar.

His breath catches when he sees the contents of the drawer, his whole world tilting alarmingly as the fact of what they’re about to do slams home to him. The drawer contains toys, a startling variety, dildos and vibrators and few nasty little object that looked dizzyingly like they’re designed to cause pain. It’s a moment before he can speak, before he can summon up even a modicum of his usual confidence, because while he still can’t really imagine her being into penetration of any kind, even just the faint possibility that she might fuck him with one of these…

“Regular box of tricks here, Annie,” he eventually manages to force out, the words sounding hoarse and wrong to his ears, his own desperate arousal painfully clear in his voice.

Her reply is awkward, stilted, like maybe she’s as out of her depth as he is. He wonders how many people she’s really done this with before, whether she’s enjoyed it. Why she’s willing to let a creature like him in so close, and he’s struck with a sudden wave of tenderness for this strange ethereal woman, his Diana, who’s doing him the immeasurable honour of allowing him to see her vulnerable.

His hands are still rummaging in the drawer as his mind wanders, and he’s jerked sharply back to earth by the unmistakable shape of a pump bottle of lube brushing against his hand. He picks it up, only half registering that it’s flavoured, all his attention once again taken up with the idea of her fucking him. God he wants it, wants to be strapped down so he won’t risk touching her more than she’s comfortable with and ruining the moment, wants her moving inside him, toy or fingers he doesn’t care, just wants that feeling of being full. Wants to feel her possessing him, over and around and inside him.

“Don’t suppose you have a pair of handcuffs in here?” he asks, his mind still on the compelling image.

She looks awkward and embarrassed when she tells him she doesn’t, so he tells her it doesn’t matter, starts to say something else, he’s not even sure what, just an attempt to distract her from her distress, when she speaks again. “I don’t have condoms, either.”

His hand goes automatically to his side, forgetting for a moment that he doesn’t have his jacket on. Annie obviously realises what the gesture means, even as his hand brushes bare skin rather than leather. Her face heats further, and she stammers out “No, that’s all right. In fact—I’m not certain—I don't, and er, do you, maybe—”  and he realises with a sickening lurch that she thinks he means to fuck her, thinks he might insist, thinks that why he’s here.

He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to make it better, how to apologise for whatever awful mistake he made that made her think he’d ever ask something like that of her, when he knows perfectly well she wouldn’t want it.

He stands, reaching for her but not knowing if he’s allowed to touch, forces out some ridiculous soothing nonsense, desperately trying to quiet the shame and panic he sees in her eyes, because this is Annie, this is his Ishtar, and she should never feel like that, ever. “I could go down on you?” he offers, even though he knows it’s the wrong thing to say. He’s no good at offering comfort, never has been, just needs her to know that sex doesn’t have to mean penetration, not now, not ever if she doesn’t want it. Even knowing it’s the wrong thing to say, he can’t help licking his lips, imagining her granting him the privilege, allowing him to touch her like that.

She responds with a kiss, gentler than earlier but no less controlling, and he feels them both calm a little at this small reassertion of their roles here, of her control and his submission to her will.

 “You can go get the condoms,” she says softly. “In case.”

He wants to protest, to explain that he doesn’t need that, doesn’t even want it, not if she doesn’t, but he can see she needs a moment alone, and so he goes, rather than risk saying the wrong thing and making her think he doesn’t want this at all, or that he thinks she’s broken in some way, like he can see she believes.

He gathers condoms of every size he carries, which is a fair few. It pays to be prepared, and he’s still half hoping she might want to fuck him, even though he knows it’s probably too much to ask.

When he comes back into the bedroom, she’s sitting on the side of the bed, still looking heartbreakingly nervous, a white box held on her lap. He steps further into the room, just enough to be able to see the black rubber cock, with its leather harness, in the box. He has to actually stop for a moment, dizzy with the force of the desire that pulses through him. God he wants it, wants it so much, but he has to be sure, check she didn’t work out his desires from the way he touched the toys in the drawer, check she isn’t just offering this because she knows he wants it so badly.

“I thought maybe you were the no-penetration kind entirely,” he says, mostly to let her know that he’s familiar and comfortable with sex without penetration. “But now… this is a hint, yeah?” God he hopes that hadn’t come out sounding as desperately hopeful as he thinks it did.

“An offer.”

It’s everything he wants, and then some, but he’d cut his own cock of before he did something to make her feel uncomfortable, so he asks, “Something you’re okay with?” God he hopes so. He’s already imagining what it will look like on her, her pale skin and that slim black cock, and Christ, he can’t remember the last time he wanted anything as much as he wants this. His mouth waters at the mental image that suddenly slams into him of getting on his knees for her, sucking her prick into his mouth, and he hopes she doesn’t notice his cock twitch at the image.

She picks up the cock, turning it over in his hands, and he has to close his eyes for a moment because the sight is too overwhelming to look at for long. “It’s what I’d like for tonight.”

He drops to his knees in front of her, ostensibly to collect the lube he’s abandoned earlier, but really because the idea of not kneeling for her in that moment is unimaginable.

He says something, something about the toy drawer, but he’s not really paying attention, his mouth operating on auto-pilot while his brain is still taken up with how she looks, sitting there pale and beautiful, his own virgin goddess.

“This one’s from an old girlfriend,” she offers, giving out the information like a gift. He imagines her using this on one of the girls she’s dated while he’s known her, dark Marie or hot-tempered Emily, but instead of arousal he finds himself wondering whether she’d really wanted it, whether they’d taken the time to be as careful with her as she needs, check her limits and respect her boundaries. It doesn’t matter now, not really, that’s all in the past and nothing to do with him, but all the same, he hopes there are good memories associated with the toy. The toy she’s going to fuck him with.

His hands go to his belt without thinking, just an instinct to get naked as quickly as possible, but he forces himself to stop, wait for her permission. Partly because he has almost no limits and she has lots and he doesn’t want to move to fast, but also because being good for her, obeying her, gives him a feeling of soul-deep rightness.

She nods when she finally notices him, and it’s probably just permission, but it feels like approval, like she’s telling him he’s being good, and fuck that was a heady thought.

“Go ahead,” she says, composed again now, back to something like her usual regal control, “let me see you.”

He starts to undress without standing, too desperate to actually use his brain, and she smiles at his awkward wriggling. For some reason it makes him blush, makes him feel vulnerable and exposed and raw, like this is his first time instead whatever the fuck number it really is. In some way he supposed it is. He respects everyone he sleeps with, even likes most of them, but this is the first time he’s done this with someone he loves with the bone-deep soul-aching adoration he feels for Annie.

He stumbles to his feet to tug off his boxers, stripped bare physically and emotionally before her critical gaze, and when she says, “Not bad,” with a quick secret smile, it feels like more than a compliment. It feels like a benediction.

“You neither,” he says, which is stupid, nothing like what he wants to say, but he doesn’t have the words for the things he wants to say, can’t think of anything that could begin to express what he’s feeling without beginning to recite the invocation of Astarte, and annoyed Syrian gods are not what they want right now.

She’s still dressed, and he wishes she wasn’t, but he won’t say so, won’t do anything to try and pressure her into anything she doesn’t want. She has control here, absolute and untouchable, and he wants her to know it.

She stands, pulls off her jumped, unfastens the simple black bra she’s been wearing underneath, and he can’t keep the slight tremble out of his hands at the sight of her, ethereal and beautiful and so much too good for him. He wants to touch her, to check whether she’s really real, but at the same time he doesn’t, because he taints everything he touches and he wants to keep her whole and perfect and unblemished by darkness.

Her fingers trail along the waistband of her skirt, a tease and a promise. “John,” she says, tone severe but still fond. “Hands behind your back.”

He has to lock his knees to keep his legs from collapsing under him with the force of the desire that rushes through him at the order. He crosses his wrists behind his back, wishing for restraints but forcing himself to stay still without them, to obey her, be good for her. Fuck he’s never felt like this, never wanted anything or anyone like this. She walked round him, inspecting him, checking his obedience, detirmining his worthiness.

He feels a great rush of relief and pride when she steps back up to the bed, clad only in white cotton knickers, and picks up the toy. He’s been judged, and found worthy, and now he gets to have everything he’s ever wanted.

Watching her step into harness and fasten it around her hips may be the single most erotic thing he’s ever seen. It’s an image he knows he will never forget, knows it will keep him warm on dark nights to come, because just once a goddess in well-washed cotton knickers looked at him and found him worthy of her attention, and nothing and no one will ever be able to take that away from him.

“Go ahead,” she says, voice strong and firm, like it should be. “Sit, no, keel on the bed. Leave room for me to join you.”

He does as he’s told, glad she’d changed her mind. Kneeling for her feels right, feels like a phsycial way of expressing some of what he’s feeling, however slight. He keeps his hands behind his back, feeling a kind of ridiculous pride at that, that he hadn’t moved them even while kneeling down, managed to keep his balance without disobeying her.

She comes and sits in front of him, black cock jutting up obscenely, the skin of her belly relaxing as she sits, becoming soft and inviting. He wants to kiss it, kiss the little rolls of skin, and the stretch marks that show silvery on her hips, and the scar on her knee from that ridiculous big-cat hunt, and all the other little places that show that she’s human, tangible. Something he can maybe have, if he’s good.

She runs a fingertip down the black silicone, making him shudder with barely suppressed desire, and says “Get it ready for you.”

He’s a little disappointed at being allowed to move his hands, but on the other hand, he’s being allowed to touch her, get the slim black cock ready for her to fuck him, and that’s more than enough to make up for being granted unwanted freedom.

He rolls on a condom, feeling a little daring when he takes the opportunity to stoke the toy, running his hand over it like it’s a real cock. “Okay?” he asks, because she hadn’t given him permission to do that, but he wants it.

“Yes,” she says, and he can hear desire in her voice, and hear that the rhythm he’s set is rubbing the base of the toy against her clit. “Really nice.”

Nothing on heaven or earth could stop him from sliding gracelessly down to suck the toy into his mouth then, now he’s heard what her pleasure sounds like, breathless and surprised and affectionate.

It feels so good in his mouth, filling him up and rubbing against his tongue. He tips his head to take more. It’s not big, he’s taken far bigger, and he can get nearly all of it into his mouth without gagging. He considers taking more, considers pushing down until he’s choking, and the thought is hot, scorchingly hot, but he doesn’t think she’d like it, and he’s already taking a liberty by sucking it at all, hadn’t asked permission or even checked that she wanted it, just given into his own desires, so he doesn’t push it, just enjoys the sensation of having something in his mouth, experiments with different speeds and rhythms to find the one that makes her gasp, bury her hands in his hair and pull just enough to hurt.

She moans softly, a tiny secret noise that he feels blessed to have been allowed to hear, her breath coming fast, like she really is enjoying this, like he’s doing something right, something good. Like he’s managing to touch her without breaking her.

He’d happily keep doing this forever, but there’s something he wants more, and he’s selfish enough to ask for it, humming with pleasure as the slide off makes the toy rub against the sensitive surfaces of his mouth, sending tiny shockwaves of joyful pleasure shooting through him.

His cock is hot and heavy, desperate for attention, but that’s not what he’s focussed on right now. He feels empty, wants her inside him, wants to be allowed to take a tiny part of her goodness inside himself, like maybe it will burn out all the festering darkness.

She knows, she always knows what he needs, usually better than him, and she reaches for the bottle of lube, lying half forgotten on the bed beside her, smears far too much onto the toy, so that some drips into her pale thighs, glistening in the lamp light.

She pulls him into a kiss, hesitant and gentle, nips at his lips with sharp little teeth. “When you’re ready. I… you know better when it comes to this, so…” She’s uncertain, nervous, and that’s all wrong, so he kisses her again, dares to take the initiative and swallow down her uncertainty, tries to take it into himself and leave her only confidence.

There isn’t much lube left in the bottle, but he doesn’t care. The toy is plenty slick, and he wants it to hurt, just a little. Wants something to ground him, remind him who he is.

Even with the little lube left, sliding a finger inside himself feels fucking gorgeous. It doesn’t work, does nothing for him, when he’s alone, but now, with her watching, her cock slick and ready to fuck him, it’s a delicious tease, makes him groan at the stretch, at the thought of what’s coming next. He goes to two fingers, doesn’t bother with more. The toy’s not big, and he wants to be tight for her.

Annie’s arranged herself on the bed, reclining back against the pillows, wide dark eyes watching him. He checks her face as arranges himself over her, reaching back to grasp the toy. The uncertainty of earlier has gone, chased away by desire, and he can’t keep from whispering her name as he guides the silicone cock inside himself, a plea and a prayer of thanks and a hymn of adoration all in one.

His thighs are trembling with the sensation and the awkward angle he’s holding his legs at, but he puts his hands behind his back all the same, because she’d like it when he’d done that earlier, and right now he wants more than anything in the world to please her, cares far more about her pleasure than his own. His pleasure is a common thing, something he can get anywhere, but being allowed so close to this goddess, that’s something far more precious.

She rolls her hips experimentally, pushes the toy up into him, and he actually stops breathing for a moment from the intensity of the feeling, everything hot and bright and perfect, sensation whiting out everything else for a moment, before emotion comes pouring back in, love he hadn’t thought he was even able to feel anymore.

The way she rolls her hips tells him that she’s seeking her own pleasure, the thrusts that with very little adjustment were hitting his sweet spot with a mind-blowing accuracy just a side effect of her own desire, and God that makes everything so much better, so much hotter, and shuts down all the thinking parts of his brain.

Which is probably why instead of her name, or some term of agreement, or even the Catullan prayer to Diana which has been floating in the back of his mind all evening, what he actually says is “Daddy,” in this awful desperate childlike voice. He freezes, sure that he’s ruined everything, that he’s disgusted her, that she’ll kick him out, never want to see him again. But instead she thrusts again, slow and hard at that same perfect angle.

“That good, huh?” she asks, amused rather than disgusted, and he hopes desperately that that means she’s taken it for a tasteless joke, that she’ll forget about that ridiculous slip of the tongue, twenty years of buried issues sliding out to wreck the perfect moment. (He doesn’t let himself think that maybe she really hadn’t minded, that this beautiful woman who’s been as much a mother as a lover to him might let him call her that, might pet his hair and tell him he’s good. That’s a thought for another day, when he’s alone and there’s no chance anyone will find out.)

She thrusts again, a gentle reminded that he hasn’t replied, and he hisses out a “yes” between teeth gritted to keep the other words inside.

Her next thrust tips him forward, the seductive curve of her hips meaning his legs are already aching from being spread so wide. He catches himself before he lands on her, and she doesn’t seem to mind, one hand coming up to rest on his hip, and he can see her eyes now, see all that strange warm affection he doesn’t know how to deal with shining up at him, so he stays put, even dares to trail gentle fingers over the softness of her belly, and up over her sternum to cup one breast, full and soft and warm in his hand.

The prayer to Diana comes back to his mind as he looks down at his perfect virgin goddess, and he allows himself to think it as he rides her, transfixed by the pleasure on her face, scorched bare by the pleasure he’s feeling in turn, radiating out through his whole body, making him pant, eyes sliding closed for a second before he forces them back open, not wanting to miss a moment of this.

When she comes it’s like performing a perfect gig, and the exact moment the magic takes hold, and the first mouthful of a pint, all at once, everything good in his life, all eclipsed by the sight of her, spine arching, mouth open to let out a silent scream of pure pleasure, eyes wide as though in shock, as though she’s never felt anything this good before, and God she look perfect.

She falls back against the pillows, spent and happy, and he’d stop if she asked, but she doesn’t, and God he’s so close, everything pleasure, as intense and sharp as the pain have been earlier, and her hips are still moving, still thrusting up into him, and all he can do is ride it out, the hand that had been cupping one of her perfect breasts shoved down to grab his cock, jerking himself with an awkward too fast rhythm that has him crying out his release seconds later. He doesn’t call her name as he comes, but he thinks it, thinks Ishtar, and Goddess, and My Love, and Annie, and they all mean the same thing.

He rolls off rather than flopping down onto her, not wanting to force more contact on her than she’s comfortable with, even though he desperately wants to be held, wants her to kiss him and stroke his hair and tell him he’s been good. But he’s already asked for far too much, probably taken more than he should’ve, so instead he helps her to clean up, throwing away the condom and wiping his come from her chin with a tissue. He normally likes to see his lovers covered in the physical proof of sex, thinks it’s hot, but on her it looks wrong, just a sign of how he’s despoiled her.

He makes an excuse and shuts himself in the bathroom for a moment, allows himself to just breath, to try and process his wild emotions. She’d enjoyed herself, he doesn’t doubt it, maybe more than she’s ever enjoyed sex before. But the fact still remains that she’s pure and good and Annie, and he’s John Constantine, and he corrupts everything he touches, brings nothing but pain wherever he goes. And he always wants more, can never seem to be satisfied with what people are willing to give him, always has to demand more affection, more attention, until they’re so sick of him they can’t bear to be around him anymore. That’s why he only has sex, why he doesn’t date. But this hadn’t been just sex, this had been practically a goddamn religious experience, and he can’t ever do it again.

He can hear Annie moving around in the next room, a reminder that he can’t just hide in here forever.

He does a rough clean up, pulls on his boxers so he won’t make her uncomfortable with his nakedness, takes a deep breath and steels himself. He’ll make some excuse, leave, and she’ll be hurt, but she’ll get over it. It will be better all round.

But when he comes out she’s lying on the bed, still in nothing but sex-damp knickers, relaxed and half asleep, and he can’t resist curling up beside her, just for a moment, taking the affection he craves so desperately.

She curles into him, like she still likes him, like their relationship is still strong, like he hadn’t just agreed to have sex with her when he knew she wasn’t interested just because he wanted it, and he feels his heart break, just a little bit, when she whispers “thanks,” against his chest.

He doesn’t cry, he never does, his Dad beat all the tears out of him long ago, but all the same his voice comes out husky and broken when he replies, “Anytime, love.”

He has to get out of there, get away, before she falls any deeper into the pit he’s dug for himself. He has to get away, free her from his toxic influence, while there’s still time.

She falls asleep quickly, looking beautiful and peaceful and innocent curled against him. He lets himself kiss her, just once, and whisper the last verse of the Prayer to Diana against her lips, then he eases himself up, careful as he knows how to be not to wake her, and flees the scene.

He goes straight to the nearest bar, tee-shirt wrinkled, and still smelling of sex, and orders straight whiskeys until he stops feeling like he wants to throw up. He wakes up the next morning in a strange bed, girl on one side of him, guy on the other, and tells himself he’s not disappointed.

Annie’s rage is like cold fire the next time he sees her, burning the soft human bits of him like acid, but he takes it, and says nothing, because it’s better this way. Better for everyone. And then Newcastle happens, and Astra, and it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s just one more small pain in a lifetime of agony, another blot on a soul headed straight for hell, and he tells himself it doesn’t matter.

But he never forgets the way she’s looked, so shocked and delighted at discovering physical pleasure, and he promises himself, never again. Never anything more than sex. The price isn’t worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Please for the love of Ishtar, leave me a comment. I live for comments.


End file.
